Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Across the street, cruisers stop at what looks like an ordinary suburban domicile. It isn't.
An officer of the law approaches the front porch, steps up, turns right, and engages with an odd configuration on the door. It looks like he's undergoing a chest x-ray. He isn't.
"Recharging his batteries," says my guide. I wanted to see this, and he knows about it.
Suddenly the cop leaves off. Another one approaches. She must have priority, because she takes his place and he retreats to another machine in the shadows of oaks to the right rear.
"She's a lieutenant, on a mission," says the guide.
"Androids," I say.
"Well, yes," agrees the guide.
The lieutenant leaves and the first cop comes around the house. He is grinning, as if there has been a faux pas somewhere. At least, that's my reading. But what do I know about androids?
He pulls a long dark object from his partrol wagon. It looks like a surfboard, but isn't. He mounts the head of it, turns it sideways, and through a pedal device he begins to mount in the very air.
"Will you look at that?" I say.
My guide has stepped away for a time. The android up high, about a thousand feet by now, drops something. I see it's in the form of a bomb, a small one, like those dropped by hand in WWI film clips. I'm not afraid, because I figure, he's one of ours, after all.
The "bomb" plops against the ground. I pick it up after it stops bouncing. It's just a small finned device. I somehow understand it can be taken apart if you twist the fins. I try and do that. It's stuck, though.
Inside is water. I wonder why that is. But there is never really any explanation in dreams.